Hmm!

Everybody has one good book in them, I am intuitively different, my brain is an explosion of never ending particles of electrified sparks encountering damp illusions completed by worries and short circuited confusions. 

%}#€$&: - Crazy

A little bit crazy is fine, a little bit crazy is fun, a little bit crazy can be undone, a little bit crazy is comedy sublime, so long as a little bit crazy is not all the time.

A whole lot crazy is noticed quick, a whole lot crazy allows plenty of magic for a crazy trick, a whole lot crazy is dangerous if your the leader of the free world and people believe in your rhetoric 

Power crazy is the way to fast leading, power crazy leaves others suffering and bleeding, Power crazy should never be mixed with a little bit crazy or whole Crazy as it brings out the worst in people rich or lazy

I must confess of being a little bit of all three, so I have dinner for breakfast and breakfast for tea.

I will walk to paradise

I whisper in the whispering gallery, I talk on the phone, I shout in an empty room when I’m all alone

I Jive in the hall, I trot on the road, I sing in the shower so nobody knows 

I take photos with my mind, I smile with my eyes, I kill all my enemies in a moment of mime

I live in peace, I die with hunger, I was much too late to stop no mans land as a runner

I scream on a mountain, I close my eyes to auschwitz, I heard the Berlin wall crumble, roll over and tumble

I was born a Christian, I grew up a Christian, I entered the war a Christian, I shot a Christian, then one day, I’ll die a Christian. 

Through the tunnel

I ventured into darkness, sorrow taking my soul, nothing that is new to me, forever in a hole, for when a child, I sped through the river tunnel under Greenwich, before realisation pounced upon me that I had the sheer panic of returning back home,  once more alone

A long tunnel it is, my mind is in a tizz, wishing the lights were brighter, focusing on the end, petrified of what I may find, a bend is up ahead, leaving tragedy  behind, searching for a peaceful, colourful sign, twisting, turning, a long way up, sweating and burning forever yearning.

Irrespective of the timepiece I wear upon my wrist, I keep on going, just cannot resist, up every slope, down every cavern, around every twist, the devils brace is clasped on tight, I fear a sharp turn leading deep on to the right, Continually searching for the bright white light, floating way up on the sail in the wind of a kite

A journey Once travelled, a chancing delay, once again on the road that leads to dismay, forever a struggle though no fault of mine own, a stone ridden road that I have travelled til’ grown, snakes bite my ankle, shoes leak with rain, forgiveness unknown, then I will go there again, future in doubt, past left in tatters, I am alive today and the fact is what matters. 

un français qui passe

Grey skies above when I fell in love, Sodden were my shoes when I first saw you

Crazy with drink, laced with drugs, a glance of the moment we slowly hugged

A mystical swirling mist when we partook a kiss or was it just smoke from your cigarette of bliss

A memory etched into my fragile mind, an Andy Warhol piece of art, of a very different kind

When at last I saw you vomit on your dress, that was the last time ever but I could have guessed

Your friends called a taxi then you were gone, now I’ll never forget the moment, we danced to that bloody song

L’AVENTURIER INDOCHINE, I saw your perfect moves in the Music Machine, freedom to express but always too keen

Au revoir je t'aime, à la prochaine were the parting words that were spoken, I’ll never see you again.

Prodemic

I saw the bat that carried the virus, they were not to know. The human race needs to eat, Cockroaches, dogs, pigs feet, a large barbecue, a small amount of money with a little treat, the remains of filth of the human pilf, forestry felled for the use of tilth. 

Coronavirus began in Wuhan City, now isn’t that a pity, they would never think of eating bat in London Town, Lizard or snake, there’s the accusation of eating lamb at twenty five pounds a leg, I ask you who’s making a mistake?, with a Wellington bake, Surely food is there for the take, not a commodity of the free Democratic race.

Tragedy wherever it begins places the Earth at a costly sin, millions will die from human error, the eyes of the old  show the real threatening terror, the planet warms, the ice caps melt, the children in school cannot even spell, destructive, odoriferous, perfidious greed, over selling the cause is an odious feed.

Intellectual farce with the clowns at the helm, let us pray for a harvest and burn all the chaff, ridicule self loathing chastise them for laughing, pack them off to hell. prioritise our ties, no more lies, stop inoculation allow some of the flies,strengthen our immunity, retrace the demise, punish the fools, Kill all their spies. 

A fools paradise, ecclesiastical curse, look after the hungry or it may get worse, let a river flow to refresh the thirst, wash your hands forevermore, protect the bubble then close the door, our children will one day know what it was for, their granchildren will scream your such a bore, 

Thank God it’s not a war, or is it? 

Not a mere fish

It was not a mere fish he caught, radically a benign flounder, created from a dream by an overseeing founder, deep within the knowledgeable mind of a strumming, drumming sounder, as a child banging tins with a hardened rubber pounder, dipping his rod into the lake that’s perpendicularly rounder, it was not a mere fish he caught as he sat on the ground, aah

Falling at 16

Shimmy Shammy overwhelmingly clammy, slipped and fell, unbelievably Jammy, landed in a pile of builders sand, my friend looked down, said “you alright, can I lend a hand?”, no damage done, although it was not fun, frightened to the hoof, when I fell from that roof. Just winding up the electric lead, falling backwards at quite a speed, the lesson I learned back then, thus far is, never walk under the safety bar. 

Close our eyes

Living a problematic life, following a road with trouble and strife, put on, considered soft, gentle and weak, not the kind of person that people seek, no matter, whatever they like to say, everything is not all grey, a spectrum of light can fill our existence, find a piece of Joy in every little difference

A pain in the heart hardens a spiteful soul, to be gentle, on the retrieval of glee, bully the ones that have victim inside of thee, realise they were the ones who care, so punish ourselves if we dare. Cripple thine own strength to crumble away, then wither to destruction and die alone today. 

Retrieval of beauty in ones eyes, bird in a tree, a structure of Oak in a land of rolling hills, grass of a lush green meadow leading down to the sea, white chalk of Dover cliffs, a dove coming home from over the Channel bringing with it the promise of a country not far away, it’s at this moment, all can be there, wash away the sadness from ones hair, extraordinarily blue sky, sun shining fair. 

Feeling the taste of things turning wrong, listening to a Blackbirds feint singing of a melodic song, pressure from the end of a captured fork, release is essential for a standing stork, closing ones eyes, put a picture in mind of arriving by ship, Statue of Liberty, gasp at ones lip, the festive season of Goose and Pork, Times Square, Central Park and standing in New York.

A kill to destroy the upset one can see, travel the world in a fantasy, Paris, Berlin, Madrid, Italy, closing our eyes and there we can be, just a moment in time, make history, Timbuktu or the Black Sea, imagining our own kind of reality, a beautiful forest in the Rhine, on a yacht on the Seine, wherever we travel the peace is thine. forget our worries, our facial lines, to be at peace, for us is fine.

Unseen

The tide flows and changes, swishing in and out, periodically like a tsunami, destruction comes about, it quite often astounds me, how a person recovers from this, nothing left but fragments with memories of ones you miss. 

Give a swathe of Joy to darken many door, is this what we teach every girl and boy? Is England proud of, “I’m okay” instead of “I am great”, hoping that one day in the future with a shows of hands, a miracle will turnaround change to our apathetic land.

It’s a mournful situation to allow sorrow, sadness, homelessness, hunger, does wealth have its tow? , there are many impoverished in the world that will never really know, mothers cannot breast feed undernourished with no milk, they have never felt the comfort of a sleep in a bed, with sheets made from silk

Let the children come to me, not a slap across the face, mothers too poor for Christmas presents with the cost of make up and lace, Christmas is a time of Joy when Santa arrives in the night, what will you receive this year,? rich givings I suspect while those who have nothing to live for are just  happy to be alive 

Battles won

Irrational with noise, shout yer mouth off, the quiet of a nights sleep will soon fill your trough, slimy and slithers down past your mind, when it reaches your derrière it will leave your behind. 

1984 remember the year?, “no what happened then, My love, my dear?”,  “I fell down the stairs?”, “no!”, your grandpa died?, “nope”, “I bought a new car?” She looks with anger, “we went to Jafar?” , she replied “We swore undying love, ring any bells?” Replied he did “and I Married a gruff’ my love” 

Laughter is the recipe for successful marriages also a trip to Harrods and claridges, “that day was no exception the church was without a spire, the vicar was so old, about time he retired, the wedding car Crashed into the bus full of guests, when the vicar said “if anyone has anything to declare your Dad was so drunk he stripped off bare, worst of all he had no hair; anywhere!” 

“No give me a clue” he said, Then something like an iron just missed his head, after some silly remarks his wife had seen red, anger got the better then he gave her a letter, she read it with some scowl, her finger crossed the page with a prowl, it read ‘Happy Anniversary love of my wife, thank you for twenty years of my life’ attached to it was a ticket for a plane, an Hawaiian island to get married again. 

She keeps it in the fridge for at least a week the second part of the tail, the damage it wreaks, sickness and weight loss, malnutrition at her core, continual growth she could feel it’s bore, Sushi, hard to finish off, eaten fresh, a tasty delight, doctors were baffled with her fight, found the little blight.Liquid was a way of saying good night, it made her so ill and gave her a fright, now she is feeling better to her delight. both battles won

Be Bold, dance in the rain

Sometimes I dance in the rain, travelling through this dark life repelling no shame, nail me to the cross, ridicule my style, betrayal is a way of life that I’ve been used to for a while, place me in the cold, see if I fold, never on a Sunday because I’m fighting bold.

A laugh in the heart of an evil act, will only back fire and that is a fact, walk away smiling, punch the air, see if your happy for long, see if you dare, I’ve died a hundred fold over, I’ve walked through a blizzard, the guilt will rip out your throat, deafen your ear, rip open your heart then eat your gizzards 

Although you rejoice in a battle done, make sure it’s a victory that was fairly won, there’s no shame in being kind, tread carefully with thought in mind or would you rather step on hard, smash your victims heads, cheer loudly to have gained the victory then twist a knife, making sure the loser is well and truly dead, are you happy to give your soul all this dread?

Gruesome remembrance of difficult years, not forgetting your destructive gift, slash and cut, a nightmare drawn, lying still as a forlornly deer, positive reactions to continue the trail, keep on moving and continuously fail, psychologically never the same, swear I’d not be a victim again. No I’m never going to be a victim again, at least I’ll try. 

Tinder dance

Tinder do

Tinder dire 

Tinder love

Tinder mire

Tinder search 

Tinder birch

Tinder could and

Tinder should

Tinder infected 

Tinder wire

Tinder is the wood

That kindles the fire.

Wearing Armour for peace

Don’t die miserable with pains the world has given, but go smiling and fighting for the peace that you will receive in heaven. 

Old, New, Borrowed, Red & Blue

I have a hybrid, it doesn’t go fast 

The engines quite old, I don’t think it will last

It’s a cross between Water and Petrol mixed

Either that or the piston heads not fixed

It reminds me of a lawnmower mowing

If you wait long enough, you’ll see it not going 

it runs on oil and willpower too

red, grey and a little bit blue

It has the XFactor

X means it’s in the past, 

pedal to metal, it’s still not fast 

Press the accelerator and you may get a blast

I Cannot see through the windscreen

As the glass is so scratched 

I cannot lock the door as it has no latch

Mondeo at the front, Astra at the rear

It’s log book dates with three different years 

Still it’s mine with its own working clock

The lights sometimes spark

Then I get a small shock

A guide to repair is in six Haynes books

But like a Ferrari, a classic of its kind 

It gets lots of wows with people standing blind

not by it’s looks, but the smoke left behind

It’s worth fifty pounds, when the tank is full

And Ten Thousand pounds 

If I sell it to you.

Queens Park

There is a park of calming surround, people from Bolton arrive all around, feeding the ducks, children on swings, for some it is a place to hear the birds sing, usually there is an Ice cream van ringing ‘Ding a Ding Ding’, not for little Emily Jones

Go for a walk then have a run, take the dog, join in the Fun, whatever you like it’s everywhere, Queen’s Park is nice to see, sometimes a bouncy castle that is free, look at the plants or the trees, locals say it’s Humdrum, not little Emily Jones.

A sickness of possession, it’s a wicked cruel world, that takes the life forever, of a wonderful little girl, call it what you may, a mind in disarray, Schizophrenic feud, or a crazy mental mood, irrelevant to the Mum and Dad who lost little their girl at Seven, little Emily Jones will be in Heaven. 

Some say life in prison is not a long enough sentence,  it is a way to pay some kind of penance, some drugs injected into her brain, she’ll never be the same, will not be free again, lock her up throw away the key, she will never feel the pain or the same as Little Emily Jones.

Rest in peace blessed little angel. XxX

A stroll in the country

Fog on a country road blinds my sight, it’s a scary place gives me such a fright, with turns and bends on the road ahead, if a car approaches I could be dead, Or maybe crushed against the stone wall or fall in a ditch after a long clutching fall,  then again nothing may happen, not at all.

I suddenly find the fog is gone, smoke from the large barbecue clears, to be in shock and awe by lots of cheers to be welcomed in with warm Kentish beers, I feel the love of a familiar crowd, people I’ve not seen for many years, my grandad, my Nan, my great uncle Will, looking quite well and seeming quite fed, a dance by the fire that is glowing bright red, My Mother and Father rush from behind, they pull my coat with a tug, turning round, I wept to see them looking so well, I clutched them both tight for a long loving hug, I wrapped the shawl around my mothers shoulders she smiles and says goodbye my love. 

A fog fills my sight again I cannot see a thing, everything seemed strange, such an incredible thing, emotion Wells inside me I can see a Christmas tree, I open my eyes from a beer spirited nap, I see my children sing, Christmas carols can be heard there’s a present on my lap, you are with us now Dad they both briefly say, I smile warmly at them and then sweetly say, I love you so much as Christmas fades away, I always will my children forever and a day, memories are important, cherished parts of our reign,yet you can live them moments again my friends, again and again.  

A strange occurrence

I woke with a start in a fine fettled blink

Hearing the sound of a familiar clink

Plates from the washer tinkled away

I wondered to look, as I heard someone say

“There must be some food here, to eat today?”

Creeping downstairs plunger in hand

I saw the movement of a scruffy small man

Disheveled and wretched, unclean face

He shuffled about at a tinkering pace

The kitchen was tidy, not a thing out of speck

I thought to myself, ‘now what the heck?’

With sandwich in hand he opened the door

Shouting “Thanks for the food”

then I could see him no more

I opened the fridge to observe what had gone

Just some mouldy old cheese and an smelly onion

I thought ‘a strange occurrence’ without dismay

I eventually adjusted to the strange kind of fright

Then hoped he would return some other cold night

One evening I found him asleep in my shed

I closed the door quietly and crept back to bed.

‘Twas the night before Christmas

Clement Clarke Moore

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.

And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow

Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!

On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, Donner and Blitzen!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!

Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,

With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.

A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.

He had a broad face and a little round belly,

That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,

"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"

Lyndsey

I saw the beauty, it was her name, I carved it on the wall, her long golden her, her eyes of Blue, Her name echoed Lyndsey, her legs were tall, yet I was small.

Adorable to me, my heart was a flutter, it felt to me as though she could melt butter, with her little wry smile that’d linger a moment, I would lean on the wall and observe for a while.

Surrounded by girls and boys alike, she; crowd stopping to see, for only a fleeting second she would notice a boy like me, last I heard, Lyndsey became a model, took lots of drugs and liked a little tipple.

History  is part of a tiny memory, encouraged by money, drugs, friends, men a many, Lyndsey lost weight, on a bulimic craze, surrounded by faces at her grave side mass, it all seem trivial, if a little crass.